by Elie Wiesel
“Don’t keep anything from your father, but don’t hurt him. Tell him why you have to leave. Tell him you’ve received your mobilization papers, that you must present yourself at the recruiting center next week; tell him that you and I both think it would be a mistake to spend years serving an army where you can’t observe Jewish law—but don’t talk about the rest.”
Oh yes, she knew. She knew I had changed and would change even more.
My father joined us.
“Come into the living room,” he said.
I followed him. He took his favorite Bible commentary and put it down on the table in front of him; he was never without it. Even in the shop he kept it before him, on the counter.
“Well, I’m listening,” he said, sitting down.
I brought him up to date in a few words. He seemed saddened but not surprised. Absentmindedly he leafed through his book while listening to me. We had discussed military service more than once. The regime was corrupt, and with a bribe one could get a discharge or even hire a proxy. But that solution was unacceptable to him. Corrupting someone else is worse than being corrupted, he told me firmly. Only one possibility remained—to flee abroad. And wait for the first amnesty.
“When are you thinking of leaving?”
“In a few days. At the beginning of next week.”
“Will you go to Bucharest first?”
“Yes, for a day or two. Just long enough to get the necessary documents, and then I’ll go on to Vienna or Berlin.”
“Is someone helping you? Who is it?”
“Ephraim and a friend of his,” I said.
My father, his right hand on the open page, seemed lost in thought. Where was he? What ancestor was he questioning in his mind? His words seemed to come from far away:
“I have three children—you’re my only son. Will you say Kaddish for me? You’ll remain a Jew, won’t you?”
The anguish in his voice startled me. So he too knew what was going on!
“Of course,” I stuttered, “of course. Why—why do you ask me that?”
His eyes straying over the open page, his hand caressing it uninterruptedly, he made clear to me that I had been wrong to hide my activities of the last few months. He hadn’t been fooled at all. He had understood a long time ago that Ephraim and I had been occupying ourselves with illegal matters. He hadn’t intervened out of respect for me. Especially since, as far as my religious duties and studies were concerned, he had nothing to complain about.
“You hope to change man,” he said. “Very good. You want to change society. Magnificent. You expect to eliminate evil and hatred. Extraordinary. I’m in full agreement.”
He expressed himself slowly, with great effort; I listened with every fiber of my body, with all my being. Suddenly he changed the subject. “Do you remember Barassy?”
“Yes, Papa, I remember.”
“And the pogrom?”
“I can still smell the mustiness, see the darkness. I can still feel the silence.”
“The funerals—do you remember them?”
“They will live within me until the end of my days.”
“The coffins …”
The images remained vivid. The black coffins, the throng, the three men in black with their money boxes.
“Those three beadles who marched before the caskets shouting Tzedaka tatzil mimavet. Charity will save you from death—what did they mean? What a strange idea! Suppose a man takes it into his head to distribute his fortune to the needy, suppose he gives charity day after day, and even at night—does that mean he’ll never die? Would the rich thus have, in addition to their money, an assurance of immortality? Of course not. That admonition means something else: in helping the poor, in looking after and listening to those who need us, we are but exercising our privilege of living our life, of living it to the fullest. And what a privilege it is! Without it we would not feel alive. That is the meaning of the formula: charity saves man from death … before death! That is my farewell present, my son. Do you understand now why I didn’t stop you from doing what you were doing? I don’t know your Communist friends, except for Ephraim. I only know that their aim is to diminish unhappiness in the world. That is what counts, that is all that counts. They’re said to rebel against the Almighty; that’s between them and God. Let Him take care of it. What matters is that they are fighting for those who have neither the strength nor the means to fight. The essential thing for you is to be sensitive to the suffering of others. So long as you persist in fighting injustice, defending victims, even victims of God, you’ll feel alive, that is, you’ll feel God within you, the God of your ancestors, the God of your childhood. You will feel within you man’s passion and God’s. The real danger, my son, is indifference.”
My father had never taught me so many things in so few words. My eyes followed his hand moving over the yellowed page. I had to force myself not to lean over and kiss it as I used to kiss it on the Day of Atonement.
“Having said that,” my father resumed, “I must ask you to remember one thing and remember it always: You’re a Jew, a Jew first and foremost; it is as a Jew that you will be helping mankind. If you care for others to the detriment of your brothers, you will eventually deny everyone. You may, if you wish, consider this my last will and testament.”
He broke off. His hand lay motionless on the open book: “Promise me you will remain a Jew.”
“I promise.”
“Promise to put on your phylacteries every morning.”
“I promise.”
“Try not to eat pork. Don’t forget your studies. Keep our festivals. And you will fast on the Day of Atonement, that I know.”
His certainty moved me. How could he be so sure? The following week I would be in the capital, then in another city, then in yet a third; I would meet new people, hear new words. I might have to deny myself, deny him. How could he know what I would do?
He closed his book and took out his handkerchief. He didn’t say another word, nor did I. Then we joined my mother in the kitchen. She smiled at us, happy at seeing us silent but reconciled.
The week passed both too quickly and too slowly. I had to prepare for my trip, yet I tried to stay near my parents as much as possible. Finally the day of departure arrived. My suitcase was ready, I only had to pick it up. An envelope stuffed with banknotes was waiting for me on the table. In the kitchen my mother was preparing tea. We drank standing, exchanging trivial remarks heavy with suppressed tenderness. Will you be careful? I’ll be careful. Don’t forget to eat. I won’t forget. You’ll write? I’ll write. Tell Masha … The children … Goldie … her fiancé … Explain that … Never before had I felt this close to my parents, so disarmed and humble before their son, before life itself. Never before had I loved them so intensely. If that’s a crime, Citizen Magistrate, I plead guilty. Guilty of having loved my father and mother, two gentle, upright people, sincere and honest, who nevertheless belonged to the cursed middle class; they believed in God and practiced the religion of their ancestors; theirs was a pure ideal, and yet they weren’t Communists. I plead guilty to having loved them more than our beloved leaders, more than anyone else in the world—I plead guilty to loving them still today, and a thousand times more, six million times more than during their lifetime.
My father reminded me that it was time to go; we had to say farewell. I swallowed hard. A child was screaming somewhere, scolded by its mother.
“It would be wiser,” said my father, “if you went to the station without us. Better not to attract attention.”
He was right. There was no shortage of informers among us. Ephraim would carry my suitcase and I would accompany him as if he were the one going to spend a week or two with the Rebbe of Wardein.
I took my mother’s hand and kissed it. Then I took my father’s and kissed it. My heart was pounding. I was glad that Ephraim arrived just then. No tears, Paltiel, he commanded quietly. I left quickly. It’s embarrassing to cry when you’re old enough to wear a uniform, when yo
u feel strong enough to go off to war against the forces of evil in the name of what is beautiful, just and human—in other words, in the name of the Revolution.
A thousand glints of gold and copper were playing in the trees bordering the street. Passersby greeted one another, shadows followed one another, birds twittered, children jostled me, premonitions churned within me. I walked slowly, forcing myself not to turn back, sensing my father’s burning look and my mother’s veiled eyes; and it was as if the two of them, motionless, preceded me. Until the end, they would watch over me.
Did I know then that I would never see them again?
I hear you had an accident, Zupanev, the night watchman, said. They had to take you to the hospital. You didn’t cry. Bravo, little Grisha. I like that. You’re an intelligent boy, and brave too. Come with me, let’s talk. Oh I know—you can’t talk. Never mind. We’ll have a chat anyhow. Let’s go to my place where we’ll be more comfortable. You don’t know me? But I know you. That’s my job: I know everyone around here and everything that goes on in every apartment, in every family. I know your mother, your neighbors; I know the one you hate and, believe me, I hate that Dr. Mozliak too. A strange doctor.… All right now, come along. We’ll be able to converse better at my place. Since you are mute, how will I manage to understand you? Don’t worry, I’ll get along. I’ve learned to hear the words people leave unsaid, to read the words one promises oneself never to utter as they take shape in the mind. Just make believe you are speaking, and I’ll hear you. Make believe you are speaking and you will be speaking. Do you trust me?
Grisha did trust him and they became friends—confidants, allies. Grisha needed a father, Zupanev a son.
They had first met one unbearably hot summer evening. Krasnograd could scarcely breathe—the slightest movement required an effort. Even the flies and mosquitoes were buzzing in slow time.
Raissa had gone swimming with Mozliak. Grisha, alone in the apartment, was filled with self-pity. He had had a quarrel with Olga, a schoolmate. And then his accident had added to his isolation. At fourteen, he felt trapped, defeated, and ready to provoke yet another accident. So as to punish his mother? Mozliak would have consoled her quickly enough. That could wait. Tomorrow, next year.
He picked up a newspaper lying on the floor: nothing in it. A book on the night table: boring. He turned the pages without stopping at a single line; he didn’t even know what this novel, written by the most famous of the fashionable writers, was about. He was going to pour himself a glass of water when someone knocked at the door. A short, baldheaded man stood on the threshold.
“May I come in?”
Grisha nodded.
“I saw you, so I said to myself … Excuse me, I haven’t introduced myself: I’m Zupanev, Zupanev the watchman. May I sit down?”
Grisha pointed to a chair and motioned to him, asking whether he wanted something to drink.
“No, thanks. I just came over to talk. At this hour there’s no one else in the whole building. They have all gone swimming or to the park. Does it bother you, my coming?”
Grisha shook his head. Nothing bothered him; nothing annoyed him; nothing excited him.
“Wouldn’t you like to come to my place? We would be more comfortable,” said the watchman.
Grisha studied him. The man said he was a watchman. How is it I’ve never really noticed him?
Zupanev guessed what he was thinking. “You’ve undoubtedly crossed my path a thousand times but you never stopped to look at me. That surprises you? That’s how I am—I don’t attract attention. I’m a human chameleon, or something close to it. I blend into the landscape; there’s nothing about me that catches the eye. Everything about me is so ordinary that people look at me without seeing me. But I see them. After all, a watchman’s duty is to watch.”
How old was he? Sixty? More? Less? He was ageless. As a child he must already have had that round expressionless face, those pale expressionless eyes. He was right: with his rounded shoulders, balding head and heavy walk, he was unlikely to arouse any interest. His features were so monotonous that one skipped immediately from forehead to eyes, from eyes to nose, from nose to lips without a single wrinkle or line to catch one’s eye. Anonymity.
“Come, my boy,” said Zupanev. “I’ll speak for the two of us. I’ll tell you stories you don’t know and should know.”
They went down to the ground floor. Zupanev opened a door, asked him to enter, offered him a glass of soda water, which Grisha drank in small sips while looking over the room. A cot, a table, two chairs, a trunk, a bookcase with some volumes whose titles the young boy’s eyes scanned. A shock: one was I Saw My Father in a Dream, his father’s work.
“What is it, my boy, what’s the matter?”
He saw Grisha’s eyes fixed on the bookcase.
“Ah, I see! The book of poems. You’re surprised. But why? Don’t I have the right to like poetry? It’s in Yiddish, so what? I understand Yiddish.”
He took the book and opened it at random to a poem called “Sparks.” He began to read in a hesitant voice; soon Grisha was on the verge of tears. So many questions flashed through his head: Who are you, Zupanev? This book, how did you get it? How long have you been a watchman here? Did you know my father?
Zupanev seemed to understand. “Some day I’ll tell you more. You’ll come back. I’ll tell you everything; you should know it all.” He lowered his bald head abruptly as if to press it forcibly into his chest. To hide his pain? Grisha felt overcome by an inexplicable uneasiness.
Zupanev kept his word. There was no end to his stories. A spellbound Grisha listened to him without missing a single word or intonation; had his father himself been speaking to him, he could not have listened with greater intensity.
Who was Zupanev? Why had he not seen him before? What did he do with his free time? Whom did he see? Who kept him informed and whom did he inform?
In time Grisha understood that his friend never bared himself. He spoke of others to avoid speaking of himself.
“David Gabrielovich Bilamer—does the name mean anything to you?” murmured Zupanev. “A writer, a great writer. A Jew, a Communist, and a friend of the big shots. Listen: one evening he is summoned to the Kremlin; he gets there early. He’s received politely, taken to an anteroom, told to wait. He’s so terrified that he develops an urgent need to go to the toilet, but unfortunately the door is locked, and no one is there to open it. What has to happen, happens: he wets his pants. Just then the door opens, an officer asks him to follow him. Bilamer tries to explain his problem, but the officer tells him: He is waiting for you. There they are in his presence: Stalin, in person. What a nightmare. Bilamer thinks: They’ll shoot me. He feels a huge icy hand on his back. And suddenly, he hears the familiar voice: ‘Comrade, I wanted to tell you personally how much I liked your article on myths in literature.’ Soon Bilamer finds himself back in the corridor, then outside where the wind takes his breath away.”
A sickly smile, or rather, an unwholesome grimace on his face, Zupanev pauses a moment before reaching his punchline: during the anti-cosmopolitan purges, Bilamer was arrested and charged with crime against decency and offense against the Head of the Party. And he was of course shot.
How does Zupanev know all that? Grisha wondered. The watchman knew a lot more. A whole procession of men, well known and obscure, ordinary and odd, peopled his stories. Grisha could guess what was coming just by keeping an eye on his companion’s right hand: if it stroked a glass of tea, some contemptible people were about to be described; if it fiddled with a cigarette, the character would be admirable.
“Do you know the story of Makarov?” Zupanev asked one evening, taking out his tobacco from an inside pocket. “I guess you’re too young. Ah, Makarov! Massive as a bull, gentle as a lamb, he really believed in the acceleration of history. That’s what the Revolution is, isn’t it? For centuries and centuries nothing moves; then, all of a sudden, mountains collapse and everything happens at once. Instead of wasting his time learning a tr
ade or looking for a woman, Makarov joins the Party and suddenly—there he is, raised to the position of an official—excuse me, a high official; he’d skipped several ranks without knowing it. Congratulations, Makarov. Especially since he’s doing a good job. And the glory doesn’t go to his head. He retains his modest life style, goes on seeing his old friends, drinking with them, and even goes so far as to protect them with his authority. Then, one fine morning comes his downfall, as abrupt and unforeseen as his rise. One night he’s yanked out of bed; he struggles, he protests; he’s told: ‘Later—you’ll tell all that later.’ Before the investigator he voices his anger and threatens to complain high up. The investigator laughs in his face. ‘But you are as high as you can get now, you idiot!’ And he comes straight to the point: ‘We know your loyalty to the Party. There’s a mission awaiting you, a mission only you can carry out.’ He gives him some details; tells him it’s all about—Antonov. ‘Antonov absolutely must be broken. He’s your childhood friend, I know, and that’s why there’s no one better qualified to unmask him.’ ‘But what’s the charge?’ ‘He belongs to the Zinoviev gang.’ ‘Impossible! I know Antonov as well as I know myself. I’ll vouch for him. You’ll never make me believe that my friend Alexeyevich Antonov has betrayed the working class. Why, he’s given his life to it. You’ll never make me say he’s an enemy of the Party, after he’s shed his blood for the triumph of the cause.’ Makarov screams—he’s taken back to his cell. The interrogation is repeated ten times, a hundred times. The usual methods are used—in vain. Specialists are called in—in vain. Then the investigator appeals to ideology, patriotism, dialectic, individual conscience confronting the collective conscience, means and ends, self-sacrifice and the Communist ideal. Throughout his discourse, the investigator keeps playing with a sharp black pencil on his desk. Makarov can’t tear his eyes away from it—and that’s what saves him. He answers, ‘My life and my soul belong to the Party, but I would disgust myself if I destroyed my best friend; I would be unworthy of the Party.’ ‘In short, you refuse to carry out a Party order?’ ‘Not at all. The Party demands we tell the truth; I’m telling the truth.’ ‘But what if the Party says one thing and you another, who’s right?’ ‘The Party.’ ‘Listen: the Party has tried Antonov, the Party declares him guilty. And you, you proclaim he’s innocent!’ ‘Impossible! The Party can’t condemn my friend Antonov because the Party can’t lie.’ The investigator gets angry. Makarov, no intellectual, couldn’t care less about logic. And—this case is unique in the annals—the affair does not end in tragedy. Ten years in the clink instead of the bullet in the back of the neck, which the ‘gentleman of the fourth cellar’ had been ordered to administer. Why the reversal? Well, neither Makarov nor Antonov ever signed anything at all. Their dossiers were lying around for so long that the gods finally changed both tools and victims.”